


Broth

by nightram



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Fenris getting a bit of a verbal dressing down, Sharing a tent together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 00:32:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2448758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightram/pseuds/nightram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a usual cold night on Sundermount when Hawke and her charge set up camp. Varric entertains himself by poking away at his friends' private lives to a degree. It's all in good humour, of course! Hawke elects to share her tent with Anders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broth

Varric dumps an armful of kindling beside the crackling fire with a satisfied huff. He claps the splinters from his gloved hands and seats himself on a dry log near the warming flames. The crisp night air had begun to take hold like a chilling veil and clings to every steaming breath. There was the quiet rustling of creatures in the foliage surrounding the campsite and the haunting call of the native owls as they hunted sent chills coursing down the most brave of spines. A rhythmic hollow cracking of tent pegs nailing into the ground echoes throughout the bitter forest.

Pulling the soft leather from his hands, Varric bundled his gloves into his coat pocket and held his cooling palms to the fire. He nudged the dry sticks he gathered with the toe of his boot and cleared his throat expectantly.

Anders is kneeling over tonight’s supper; a thick broth that smells strongly of leek and garlic. Varric thinks he can spot chunks of other vegetables, and what he hopes is some lamb in the viscous mix.

“If you really want to stoke it that badly, I am sure you are old enough and ugly enough to do it yourself without falling in, Varric.” Anders glances up from his cooking to raise a brow in muted irritation. He was tired and hungry, and his bones ached from the frigid air. He wanted no more than to curl up in his bedroll without a second thought of dinner.

A hearty laugh shakes the budding mist from Varric’s thick coat. “Speak for yourself, but I suppose even if I did happen to trip and land in the coals, you’d at least slap some bandages on me and call it a night, ‘ey, Blondie?” He begins to break up the small branches.

There is a hault in the chorus of the steady hammering of tent pegs, enough to draw the mens’ attention. Hawke throws her makeshift malette, a rock, aside and fixes a guide rope to the rusted anchor. Her plated armour that she hasn’t entirely removed glistens in the distant light of the fire, and she turns to the pair with a smile. Fenris continues to pitch a second pale canvas tent a few metres from hers in the dark.

Walking around the simple shelter checking each individual pole and peg, Hawke adjusts each rope until it is satisfiably taught. Once she is content with the state of her tent, she casts her pack inside. It’s something she can worry about after her belly is filled.

Branches whine in the breeze that whistles through the campsite carrying with it the distinct crisp scent of pine.

Turning his attention from Hawke once she clunks her way over to Fenris, Varric pokes at the glowing coals with a stick in hand. “You ready for a cozy night? It’s sure gonna be a cold one, don’t you reckon?”

Anders pulls his ladle from the stew, blowing on the portion gently before dipping in his finger. He cringes from the scalding pain and quickly licks the broth off to taste it. His lips purse into a frown and he adds some pepper.

“Cold? Tonight? What could’ve possibly tipped you off?” Anders responds in forced humour. “Surely you could not tell simply from the frost ‘neath our feet?” He can’t help but let the corner of his mouth tug up at the seeming wit of his own remark.

The dwarf silences a chuckle, only allowing a knowing smile to grace his ruddy cheeks and continues tending to the fire. Neither of the men look up from their assigned tasks.

“Do you know where you will be sleeping tonight?” He doubts the tired mage has really thought beyond satiating his ravenous appetite, and Varric relishes in his own insight. “I mean, I understand if you want to snuggle up to me if the owls spook you out too much. I am mighty handsome and my chest and head aren’t the only places on me that benefit from a thick blanket of hair.”

Anders coughs abruptly, his breath catching in his throat. He stifles it, careful to not heave into the stew. “By Andraste’s flaming arse, I am most definitely sure I did not need to know that information.”

“If you’re our friendly neighbourhood Spirit Healer, you might as well know the details now in case you have to give me mouth-to-mouth later on.” A wicked tone punctuates his laughed words. Anders cringes at the thought. He liked men with a nice dusting of hair, but not with that attitude. Or dwarves really for that matter.

Varric gestures over his shoulder with a casual nod. “I doubt you’ll be wanting to be cramped in a tent with your best friend Broody over there.”

“There are only a few I’d wish that curse upon,” Anders mumbles into the crock. He briefly wonders who he could place on that list and would consider it a punishment.

“Well,” Varric shrugs, “I’d assumed you’d be bunking with Hawke.”

This causes Anders to still and Justice to bubble. He took care to avoid being too close to her, and for good reason. 

“I hadn’t thought about who was sleeping where, but I fail to see how it’d be anything that warranted whispering around the secluded fire. We aren’t teenagers anymore.” Varric gives his iconic and unabashed guffaw. 

“I’d say by your forlorn stares and hidden glances you assume I don’t see, that it is plenty reason to gossip.” The dwarf leans forward. Whether it is to intimidate or preserve what little privacy their discussion afforded, Anders does’t know. But he does not appreciate it.

“This looks romantic. I’m not interrupting, am I?” Hawke chortles, making her way over to sit by the fire. Her stomach rumbles when she catches a whiff of the bubbling stew.

Varric sits back and presses a hand to his chest. “Are you implying my standards are low enough as to make a move in this mood killer of a place?” he feigns offence and gives a disgruntled sigh. 

“Campfires by night are romantic enough I had thought,” Hawke pouts, “they had always been quite alluring in my opinion.” Anders knows better than to express his own agreement. Maker knows what wild tales Varric already wove regarding the two of them.

“Ah, but simple romance is not enough, my dear Hawke, you need two more ingredients for the banquet of love: that which is sensual and passion.” Varric purposely does not respond to the unsatisfied look on her face and instead tucks his hands under his armpits.

“It’s mundane and overdone, trust me. You are a Lady, you should only accept the best.” Hawke gives an unconvinced “eh” with a dismissive shrug of her armoured shoulders and Varric bites back a laugh.

“Anyway, Blondie and I were just discussing what’s going on with tonight’s sleeping arrangements.” The purr in Varric’s voice bristles the fine hairs on the back of Anders’ neck with wound tension. Hawke fails to notice the anticipation and satisfaction the dwarf emanated as he turned his attention to her.

“I had assumed you’d be bunking with Fenris,” Hawke says, she wavers when the log beneath her shifts slightly. She makes a note to not lean back that far. “I know he and you don’t get along, Anders. You’d probably sleep a bit more easily if you didn’t have to worry about him lurking just a few inches from you. Maker knows you need it.”

With contentment, Varric does not question why Hawke couldn’t share with Fenris just as easily; the two were good enough friends save for the odd disagreement here and there. He’d personally greatly benefit from sharing a human sized two-man tent with another less than human sized companion. 

Also, if he takes watch before either Hawke or Anders do tonight, he’ll have reason to peer in to wake whoevers turn it is next and can determine their sleeping arrangements. The air is chilling, definitely reason for conspicuous sharing of body heat. Oh, yes, how Rivaini will enjoy hearing about this. He can picture the glistening anticipation in her glowing eyes right now.

“Is supper just about ready?” Hawke inquires when she feels her stomach growl once more. 

Lifting the ladle and determining how the sludge slipped back into the pot, Anders makes a pleased sound. “I’d say it’s ready now, yes.” He takes up one of four wooden bowls stacked beside him and begins dishing out portions.

When Fenris joins the rest of the group, the others have already finished their first helpings. Varric cheers when the elf makes an appearance and takes a seat beside him in front of the fire once he spoons himself a serving of the pungent stew.

Varric places his finished meal by his feet and stokes the fire. “Do you want to take first watch, Broody? I’ll take second.”

“Sure, unless someone else wants to.” Fenris swirls his dinner leisurely and waits for the steam to wither away. 

Hawke looks to Anders for his response and speaks for the both of them when she shrugs. “No problems here.”

The group enjoy the stillness of this night off Sundermount. The conversation lulls as they turn to second helpings or simple peaceful contemplation. The mist had begun to thicken once they had all gathered by the fire and the bitter cold permeated the air.

“What do you think of the stew?” Hawke leans forward with her elbows on her knees and smiles, anticipating a positive reaction. “Anders made it. I thought it was definitely one of the better meals we’ve had on the road.”

Fenris does seemingly well to swallow his blatant pride. He tried to not think himself a petty man, but it shone through like the lyrium tattoos that fractured his skin. “It’s eatable,” comes his muted response much to Hawke’s disapproval.

“It sure beats Daisy’s Dalish delights,” Varric frowns, “they taste more like a herbal salve than a meal, but don’t tell her I said that. I’d rather not make her cry.” He doesn’t like to speak badly of his friends, especially behind their backs, but nothing could forgive Merrill’s liberal use of lemongrass and whatever mushroom it was that she found by the side of the road. It didn’t kill him, but the taste may as well have.

“Nothing is good enough for Fenris’ tastes.” Anders crosses his arms. “I thought we had established that months ago.”

“I do not trust the produce of an abomination,” the elf sneers; his shoulders square and his agile frame gathers substance. It always fascinated Varric how easily Fenris moulded his posture to suit his needs. The transformations always brought volume to his tales.

Before Anders can get a word out, Hawke raises her hand as if to cast a spell, effectively silencing him. “I’m stopping this here before it escalates.” Her voice is commanding and in control, this too, Varric was sure to describe in intimate detail whenever he shared a story of her triumphs.

Fenris scoffs into his bowl and submits to eating in silence. He does not go back for seconds. Anders elects to hunch over and stare unseeingly into the dancing flames.

Varric and Hawke chatter amongst themselves to fill the intimidating void of silence between their two subdued friends. It had seemed both Anders and Fenris had now come to an undiscussed agreeance to not talk. It was… unsettling. Enjoyable, but unsettling. Varric wasn’t sure whether he prefered their threatening silence although peaceful, or if he’d rather they be at the others throats. At least they looked lively when they argued.

Hawke and Fenris are polishing their respective blades while Varric tends to Bianca when Anders retires for the night. He clasps his hands together and breathes on to them to warm their creaking joints as he makes his way to the tent, and summons a wisp to light the dark space while he unravels his bedroll.

“You think you guys will stop antagonising each other some day?” Hawke doesn’t look up from the dirtied longsword in her hands, but even with averting her glare the tension in her voice is clear.

Fenris glances up, but finding Hawke’s attention seemingly elsewhere, he returns to his chore. “You phrase it like it’s a friendly question, yet your intent is clearly the opposite.” The metal hums gently under the caress of his cloth, and he is pleased with it’s shine.

“I get very worked up when two of my charges continually threaten one anothers safety. Thought you’d have figured that out by now.” Varric listens to the exchange keenly.

“I am not the one who jumped to the offensive over supper,” the confidence in Fenris’ tone brings a smirk to Varric’s lips as they both look to Hawke. “Are you sure I should be the one you are asking about this?”

“Your statement, although brisk, was clear baiting. And you did not hesitate to throw your own remark.” It is now Hawke’s turn to ruffle her feathers. The visible muscles in her neck tense and a gentle red stain rises in her face. Her jaw clenches and she directs her glower at the elf who sits beside her. “I will not tolerate your attitude, Fenris, particularly when you willfully mask your aggression as passiveness in an attempt to get off scott free.”

Varric notes that Fenris goes to open his mouth, but must have realised that there is nothing he can say to dodge Hawke’s scathing critique this time. He wondered if this would negatively affect the elf’s view of the Ferelden, or if it would inspire some respect for her attentiveness and assertion.

“If next time you in fact do _not_ say anything incriminating, then I will gladly step down when I bust your nuts,” the woman’s brows rise with a false smile; her attempt to seem less threatening. It only made her frustration more prevalent.

Fenris squares his jaw and tilts it up slightly, it greatly accentuates the disgust on his marked face. Despite his small stature, he preserves his air after Hawke’s verbal dressing down. Perhaps if he possessed the size of a human, he could challenge Hawke’s physical presence.

The clack of sheathing her sword punctuates the end of Hawke’s dialogue. Her patience is waning no thanks to the evening drawing on if the shadows under her eyes are of any indication. She still had part of her gear to remove and wrap under her tarp before she could even think of laying her head upon her thin pillow.

“Calling it a night, Hawke?” inquires Varric. Bianca’s bowstring sings while she is buffed and oiled with the precision granted by practise and time.

“Yes. I’d like us to be moving a few hours past dawn if that’s enough sleep for the both of you.” Relieving the tethers holding her pauldrons, Hawke grabs her blade with a free hand and stands.

“Fine by me.” Varric smiles when he works off one particularly stubborn clot of blood. “Then I’ll head off too.”

Hawke checks she has all of her things before making her way from the campfire. “Goodnight then. See you when it’s my turn for watch.”

“Alright then. I’ll wake you when I’m spent. Rest well, Hawke.” Fenris gives his own farewell with a stiff “humph” and doesn’t bother to look up from his greatsword.

Beside her tent sleeps the bulk of Hawke’s heavy armour. She discards what is left on her under the grey tarp and weighs it down with rocks just in case the wind picks up, although it seems unlikely. The air is nothing more than an icy breath.

Suppressing a shiver, Hawke’s teeth chatter when she quietly pulls open the entrance of the tent. She has to duck and crawl to get into it, and even then her back touches the damp canvas. 

Resolving to make her way over to her still bound bedroll on her knees, she does her best to not wake Anders who lies facing the wall. He has draped his quilted coat and mottled feathers over himself as a second blanket, a wise decision for a night on Sundermount.

There is little room to extend her bedroll in the small space and cringes when she bumps her companion once or twice when she tries to flatten the simple mattress. Hawke holds her breath when Anders stirs.

“I am awake, you know,” comes the mage’s quiet words.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” whispers Hawke.

Anders lifts his head and looks over his shoulder. “Your little discussion with Fenris probably woke the entire forest,” he mumbles. 

Hawke evens out the bed the best she can and brushes the dirt and leaves she tracked in off her leathers. Her body shudders from the absence of the warm fire and she wastes no time in discarding the thick protective padding she wears to prevent her armour from chafing. Quickly, she bundles herself in her woolen blankets and fidgets in hope of finding a comfortable position.

“I’m sorry,” Anders sighs. He rolls onto his back and Hawke notices his hair is out and how it cascades across his pillow like a caramel river. “I know better than to fall for his obvious lures.”

Hawke watches his shadowed profile. “At least you acknowledge that you are in the wrong. I am more frustrated that he thought he had gotten away with it because he thought he’d been smart about it.” She rolls her eyes and leu of shaking her head and tugs her covers up to her chin.

They lie there with only the owls hooting and chirping of bats to fill the empty conversation. Although the haze of sleep is still upon him, Anders is aware of how stiff his muscles are. Justice was hushed, lethargic from being torn from the Fade as their body woke. 

Hawke was so close, if he thought hard, Anders could feel her warmth. 

This made him nervous.

If Justice were properly awake, there’d be a headache on the horizon.

She was a distraction, he reminded himself.

“Are you warm enough?” he asks, desperate to break the quiet. He realises instantly that he could’ve surrendered to the lull and simply pretended to sleep; effectively avoiding any pressure to talk. It was too late for that now.

Although he receives no answer, a chatter of Hawke’s teeth answers his question. She has her back to him now, she must’ve rolled over while he was lost in his thoughts. He wonders if she has fallen asleep.

The covers crumple when Anders props himself up one elbow. He does his best to drag some of his coat over Hawke’s sleeping form. He convinces himself that his concern is strictly from a professional perspective and rolls back over, sure to keep his back to her. Facing away was the only thing he could do to preserve a barrier between him and temptation.

Thankfully Justice was groggy and far more concerned with distinguishing where between the Fade and waking world they were to even care, and eased the two back into a deep and restful sleep.

He does not notice when Hawke’s tired form curls up against him. Nor when Varric wakes her to take the next watch.


End file.
